


Hold

by BloodQuest210



Series: Falling Into Your Gravity [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Can be read as one shot, F/F, Falling In Love, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Prison, Romantic Friendship, Second Chances, Slow Burn, Ten Years Later, korvira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodQuest210/pseuds/BloodQuest210
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Korra comes to visit Kuvira in prison but she seems unspeakably sad, and Kuvira has no idea why.</p><p>For <span class="u"><b>sailorlock</b></span>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unterpression](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unterpression/gifts).



> _**Disclaimer:** The author of this fan fiction does not profit from this text and creative ideas established in the original work belong to the original creator(s). All trademarks and copyrights contained in this text are owned by their respective trademark and copyright holders. This text is not authorised or endorsed by the original creator(s) or any trademark and copyright holders. This text may be used for personal, private purposes. Copyright of this text and original ideas expressed in this text belong to their respective author(s)._

Korra looks weary today. An air of exhaustion clings to her like a disease the moment she walks across the threshold. You notice because you always notice; so attuned to the presence of your most steadfast visitor over the years that it's almost as if you are one and the same.

It almost scares you, how attached you’ve become.

No good ever comes of being attached, so you’ve maintained and a poised formality; even in the most pressing of times.

It’s served you well so far. 

You notice too, the lack of fervour in the way she approaches you. She doesn’t ask about your day with the promptness you’ve come accustomed to.

She’s sad you realise, albeit belatedly; feelings are not your forte. And yet now knowing, the emotion hangs in the air like a fog, the heaviness of it filling your lungs in a half-caught breath that settles around your heart.

She’s never come to you so sad before; why now, when everything had been going so well?

You realise these feelings are soft and dangerous; you shut them down before they take ahold of all sensible thought. 

People are allowed to be sad, you rationalise - although the fact this is the first time in over a decade doesn’t hold up to close scrutiny.

The reasoning doesn’t seem cogent, but for now it will have to do.

You want to ask what’s wrong - it’s absurd how badly - it’s almost as if the question doesn’t leave your lips that very instant you might burst.

Yet, that half-smile she offers you as she approaches says otherwise, telling you everything that words would not: _please, don’t ask._

You’ve seen that smile before, that one that not quite reaches her eyes, although the memory is hazy and the circumstances were different. 

You remember being distraught and lonesome, forgotten on in this godforsaken spit of land; caged like an animal with medication that didn’t work and nights that seemed endless.

Your pride too strong to allow yourself to break completely; your psychological wounds too deep to heal without leaving scars.

You remember bring held gently, spoken to softly. You remember sad blue eyes.

You remember being embarrassed days afterwards, but she never held it against you; never bringing it up unless you did.

It’s not that you’re constrained to oblige, it’s that you are beholden to her.

So you don’t ask because it’s not your place to.

When she sits opposite you and does ask about how you have been, there’s no camaraderie in her voice. It’s subdued and a little raspy. Why does she look so tired? 

You want to reach out but the mere thought causes you to clench your hands tightly in you lap.

You remind yourself again: not your place.

You divulge what you’ve been up to as you always do - it’s a relay of facts more than anything, and it’s a little dry you know, but in all these years you’ve never been good at answering a question straight if you didn’t have to.

It serves as a good warm-up if anything; it’s not as if the guards were particularly engaging conversationalists themselves.

A politician’s sleight-of-hand she would call it, and once upon a time you would have been offended. Now, you see it as the banter it is and bounce back with your own quip; your hubris dimmed with acceptance of your own flawed nature. 

Today she doesn’t attempt to rectify your deflection of talking about yourself. In fact she doesn’t interrupt at all with a _‘No I’m asking about how_ you _are. I don’t care how many times you’ve been to the gym or how much it’s rained this week!’_

In fact she offers nothing, eyes glassy and almost unseeing as she listens in near silence, posture unwavering. The conversation wilts to an awkward but unquestionable end by your own tongue. She nods in acceptance when you lapse into an uneasy silence.

This doesn’t feel right, but you don’t know how to fix it. 

You don’t know what you’re meant to be fixing.

“And how... are you?”

For a moment she seems herself again; all bright-eyed and alert, attentive to the person in front of her. You’ve surprised her, and in some small way you’re pleased. It’s rare for you to ask about the welfare of others, even people you consider close to you.

Not that she would know you consider her close to you.

“I’m -” she pauses, looks straight at you, eyes clear as you always remember them, although it’s been an age since you first met. Not that you think of her often.

Lying to yourself is such a poor habit, but it’s a difficult one to break.

“I’ve been better,” and it’s honest. “But it’s nothing to worry about, so don’t.”

You want to pry - you do, you’re terrible for it. You want to know everything _now,_ want know what’s wrong, want to fix things even though you’re in no position to do so.

But she breaks eye-contact with you for a split-second, glancing away towards the wall and back again and you know it’s not appropriate to enquire any further - it’s private. 

So you fall into a well-worn routine; chairs and tables get pushed to the edges of your cell and a meditation mattress is laid out in the middle of the room - a little dusty from lack of use - only being used several times a year when she visits.

You’ve tried entering the Spirit World alone before, and you can, _just,_ although it’s so much harder and you give up far too easily. It doesn’t come naturally to you and the mental exertion is more laborious than any physical exercise you’ve ever partaken in.

You’re also guilty of lying down on the mat and falling asleep - who knew the desolate boredom of finding inner-peace was so taxing. 

When you told her that once, she rather candidly put it down to laziness which you most animatedly argued it was not. Your egotism may be in check these days, but you’re not one to take such blatant lies. 

She laughed at you then, and argued right back; you relished at how utterly foolish such exchanges were. 

Unstoppable force meets immovable object.

She doesn’t seem so unstoppable now, and you - despite your better judgement - have most certainly been moved by it.

You both sit across from one another as you are accustomed to doing. Close enough to touch if need be but far enough away not to be inside the others personal space; that space seems less than what it once was, or perhaps your own boundaries have become smaller.

And on the rare instance when you’re entirely and unabashedly honest with yourself, it’s nice to be a hair's breadth away from touching another person you like. 

Puerile and childlike, but true nevertheless; you’ve had so few opportunities to do so in your life. 

And none that didn’t end in disaster. 

Her eyes slip close and she moves into a meditative state with such speed you’re almost envious. You used to sit here a bore holes into her head with your glare as you struggled to simply sit still, much less empty your mind. 

When you first started this, you were guilty of declaring the whole thing nonsense and sulked in your bed instead. She would sit and wait for you though – despite the fact you didn’t always come back. 

You remember being tired and aggressive one evening, eager for her to leave, and finally took the hand she offered for the umpteenth time - if only it would get her to realise you had no potential spirit energy to channel and leave. 

You were both surprised as each other with how quickly it worked. 

Now you take this as a discreet opportunity to gaze over her unsuspecting self; her hair is longer than it once was and there are the beginnings of crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. Laugh lines too, and that’s no surprise - she’s always lively, and you imagine she laughs more and with less restraint when she’s away from you.

Time has been kind to her, less to you.

You hair is beginning to grey prematurely, and there’s everlasting drawn look upon your face. You avoid mirrors now if at all possible - you look beyond your years, although she doesn’t seem to share your opinion.

Today and perhaps for the first time, you see yourself in her.

Because she looks beyond her years too.

That childish yearn for closeness grips you and you can’t quite put your finger on what exactly is causing it this time; only that for once it’s less to do with you and more to do with her. 

On poorly repressed impulse, you do exactly that. She jumps, surprised, but doesn’t pull away as you take her bare hands in your own, a little lax to call it a hold.

“I’m not feeling very connected to the Spirit World today,” and you say and hope she doesn’t see it for the god-awful lie it is. You're a terrible liar when you’ve been compromised and you’re sure it’s written all over your face.

She doesn’t open her eyes and you are thankful for small mercies. “Me neither,” and she laughs a little then smiles. Her hands are warm and everything is hazy. “This might help me too.”

Her hands tighten around yours and you’re too dazed to speak, tingling goes from the palms of your hands, and up your arms and to the base of your spine. You don’t know if it’s her spiritual energy or your own senses reacting but the sensation is immensely comforting. You hope it is for her too.

Flooded with this new-found serenity, you close your eyes and concentrate on the link between the two of you, centralising your energy to the point where you are connected. 

It takes a little longer than what you expect; her energy although powerful felt caliginous around the edges, more leaden. There was a strange unfamiliarity in being the one to lead them both through.

You know you’ve made it when there’s a rush of wind against your skin and the feel of cool, lush flora against your bare toes. It’s the closest you will ever come to being free, and you wish you had enough mental willpower to make here more often on your own accord.

You open your eyes and find yourself in a meadow of pink flowers surrounded by mountains and dotted with trees. You roll your eyes at your own predictability. You always end up here without fail when you mediate on your own, as if anchored spiritually to this very spot. 

She thinks it must have left quite an impression on you; it’s hard to imagine how being saved by the most powerful being on the planet and ripping a hole into an alternative dimension would not.

Which begs the question of why they were there now. You aren’t alone, after all.

You look at her, curious, but she has become much too distracted gazing around your new location. “Oh, well wasn’t quite what I was aiming for,” she says light-heartedly, turning to look back at you, suddenly abuzz with energy. “Does this have something to do with you?”

She hasn’t let go for your hands. You try to not draw attention to it.

“Probably. Possibly,” you clarify quickly, not wanting to dwell on your own lack of imagination. “Your spiritual connection, it doesn’t feel... like it usually does.”

“Clear?” she offers, and shrugs with a sweetly doltish grin, looking more herself then ever. You smile back, but your not entirely sure why you’re so pleased. “It was. I haven’t but able to get here for weeks.”

This information alarms you slightly, and without thinking, squeeze her hands a little too hard. She shifts slightly and you release her instantaneously. “Sorry,” you mumble quickly, trying to play an air of indifference. 

You’re failing; she doesn’t let go of your hands and inclines her head to one side in puzzlement. “Are you all right?”

Now it’s your turn to be confused. “Yes, I’m fine,” you say, because you are. “Are you?” It doesn’t seem you’ve said enough, so you press on, “Because you seem a bit off.”

“Oh,” she shifts again and doesn’t let go of your hands. Now you know it’s deliberate and delicately hold back. “You noticed?”

“It’s hard not to,” it’s blunt and sounds more unsympathetic than you to intend it to; you bite your tongue the moment it leaves your mouth.

“Sorry,” she says in the same hasty manner you had only moments ago, but it’s not enough.

You’re sure the thrum of electric in the tips of your fingers is tangible in this tranquil little glade. Your hands feel too tender, your heart too jittery.

You want to ask: _‘Can you feel that too?’_ Yet you are aware such a question would render you vulnerable and too transparent for your liking.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” and this is unbidden territory and you both know it; she’s been visiting you for years but sporadically; to you it seems a stretch to call you friends, more-so one another’s confidant.

She’s still clasping onto your hands.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s undeniably right too, and you’re not sure which idea scares you more.

“I -” she gives a chuckle, looking at you quizzically. “What’s brought this on then? When did you care so much?”

“I don’t,” and you’re lying but you both know it, the words _‘I don’t know,’_ seeming more fitting but you dare not utter them. “But you’re useless like this.”

“True,” and she nods in agreement, crow’s feet crinkling in amusement at you. Had you been anyone else, you would describe that look as fond. “I don’t feel myself today.”

“Why is that?” It’s redundant, but you’re impatient. This is taking too long. 

“Something happened,” she’s looking at you plainly now. She’s going to tell you, you know it and a sense of presentiment accompanies it.

You’re hesitant to ask. “What happened?”

She hesitates briefly, “It’s Asami.”

“Oh, oh,” you manage bluntly, at a loss of what to say. You’ve never been in this position before and your heart lurches uncomfortably in your chest at the mere mention of her name. “My condolences,” you want to physical cringe, you sound so false. 

Isn’t that what you say when someone’s _died?_ Oh you’re a dreadful comfort you’re sure. “She’s not dead is she?” you ask somewhat ineptly, just in case. 

“ _No,_ thankfully,” and she laughs at you. A full, proper laugh and you can feel the vibrations of it through her body. You’re awfully stupid and awfully giggly all at once. 

You laugh too because you’re nervous at your own slip of the tongue, and laughing helps cover up your too-hard beating heart; even if it’s only for your own sake.

“It's not that dramatic,” she reassures you sobering up, all light and untroubled, “we broke up.”

Her hands are clammy and warm. Her eyes are soft.

She’s so close and real and pliant. This could be your undoing.

It’s hard to believe this is what all the sad looks have been about. She doesn’t even seem sorrowful as she says it, the words coming to quickly and easily to her. 

She’s always been good at leaving her troubles at the door before; what’s change now?

That can’t have been the reason but your so reluctant now to implore further, upset this odd state of balance you’ve come to that you decide to let it lie. 

“I disagree. Breaking up can be pretty dramatic in my experience,” you say, because although it’s morbid, you’ve come so far that it’s therapeutic to make light of the darkest time in your life.

“Well, I’m doing better than you! That’s something.” 

“I’m in prison for life, Korra,” you drawl humorously, “you’re setting the bar pretty low.” 

And then is happens - her expression crumples completely and that gleam in her eye is gone, swept away by an ocean of sadness.

“Korra...?”

“Don’t say that.”

 _What?_ “What?”

“That’s isn’t true, you know that isn’t true!” her voice is straining; she sounds distressed. “Your eligible for parole soon -”

“In four _years,_ I wouldn’t call that soon -”

“- and then, you’ll be out, and we can go and do all those great things we talked about. We can go and set up a proper children’s homes in the Earth Nation and visit the Fire Nation and you can see what traditional Agni Kai looks like at sunset, and I can show you winter solstice in the South Pole.”

She’s so earnest that it breaks you to destroy her spirit. You speak slowly and levelly, less your meaning be unclear, “You don’t seriously think the courts will allow me early release just so I can go gallivanting around the world with you?” 

She stays silent, looking directly at you, unwavering. 

“I _killed_ people, Korra. People are dead because of me.”

Then she looks broken and you’re ashamed of yourself.

“The only way I’m ever leaving this island is in a body-bag. The minimum term is just a formality.”

She’s squeezing your hands so hard she’s trembling with the effort. The tips of your fingers feel cold. You're numb.

“I can do something,” she says quietly.

“You’ve done everything there is to do,” and it’s true, she has. 

“We must have overlooked something, there must be a way to get you out of there.”

There isn’t, but you can’t bring yourself to say it.

She shakes you like a rag-doll, you let it happen because you don’t know how else to react. “Kuvira you can’t just stay in there. You can’t just give up!”

It was less giving up for you and more accepting fate.

“Why do you care so much?” you ignore that odd croak in your voice, staring at the woman in front of you whose slumped and staring blankly at your joint hands as if she were made of lead. 

“Because you don’t care enough,” and she looks up at you, eyes glassy. “Because you’re good and you’re passionate and you’re willing to change - and you have.”

“Because although we never had the chance to spend more than a few hours together every time I visit, they’re some of the best hours I’ve ever had. 

“Because my life is a continuous turmoil of a juggling of responsibilities and commitments and you demand nothing of me.

“Because everything around me is changing and I don’t who I am or who I’m supposed to be and yet somehow you remain a single constant in my life.

“Because people I love and have loved dearly are growing apart from me, and although I know that’s just part of life and don’t hold it against anyone, I just know somehow that you won’t.

“Because you’re like me and because -” her voice cracks and she dips her head, taking an uneven breath. “Because if I lose you, I’m going to lose part of me too.”

You can’t breathe.

Everything and nothing makes sense all at once.

“You’re lying,” old habits are hard to break. You voice doesn’t sound like your own any more. You feel betrayed. 

“I’m _not._ ”

She leans forwards and suddenly your eyelashes are all aflutter.

Her lips press firmly on yours and you come completely undone.

**Author's Note:**

> _ “What's a soul mate?” _   
>  _ “It's uh... Well, it's like a best friend, but more. It's the one person in the world that knows you better than anyone else. It's someone who makes you a better person. Actually, they don't make you a better person, you do that yourself - because they inspire you. A soul mate is someone who you carry with you forever. It's the one person who knew you and accepted you and believed in you before anyone else did, or when no one else would. And no matter what happens, you'll always love them. Nothing can ever change that.” ~Dawson's Creek _


End file.
